The Road Less Traveled
by Larania Drake
Summary: Cell really messed up the paperwork of the Afterlife. Why? He wasn't able to choose good or evil. Now, without his memory, he's been sent back to learn the difference between the two, to see where he goes, Heaven, or Hell.
1. Default Chapter

The Road Less Traveled

The Road Less Traveled

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Disclaimer: Dragon Ball Z belongs to Akira Toriyama, not me, and I make no money from this fic at all.

Warnings: Yaoi, TWT, and basically oddness

Piccolo was stood in front the diminutive god of Earth, and was very grateful there were no flies up there. For they'd surely be in his mouth by now.

"You have to be kidding me. Tell me you are. Lie if you have to."

"N-no," Dende said, clutching his staff to his chest. His eyes were huge as he backed away. "I'm just telling you what Enma-sama told me!"

Piccolo closed his eyes, and told himself again that he was not supposed to kill the god of earth. He was not going to kill the god of earth. No, he wasn't supposed to; it wasn't his fault that the judge of the dead was a vindictive bastard.

Piccolo took a deep breath and bared his teeth.

"So, when's he going to get here?" Piccolo snarled, his fists clenched so tightly blood started to drip from his fingers.

"Um, any minute now?" Dende winced, and hunched down. He didn't want to see Piccolo's face when he told him that- his face had been bad enough when he'd told him what Enma-sama had decreed already.

There was dead silence for a moment… then the sound of nearly hysterical laughter.

"Okay, okay," Piccolo finally said, after getting to his feet after rolling on the floor. Dende was looking at him like he'd lost his mind- and Piccolo thought he agreed.

"I may not like how Enma-sama is doing it, but I see his point," Dende ventured carefully. "Cell was never given the chance to make a choice between good and evil. He never understood the difference. He never got the chance to feel love or compassion. He was like a kid that was told by his parent to do something. Therefore, there was not enough in his packet for Enma to keep him in hell indefinitely."

"Yeah, yeah, I know the rational behind it. But I also know that Enma is making ME be the one to shepherd him because of that stupid comment Kami made all those years ago. I wish I could have killed him for that…"

Dende looked back at Piccolo. "But he's part of you."

"And there was never a better reason for suicide."

Dende crossed his eyes. He admired and respected Piccolo- but sometimes the earth raised Namek was a pain to the posterior.

"Well, I'm keeping him here. There's no other place to put him," Piccolo said, but Dende recognized the question, and nodded. Both of them stood there for a long moment, before a flow formed in front of them. It was hazy, then solidified, leaving an unconscious, green armored body there.

~*~*~*~

He didn't know where he was. 

Then it occurred to him, he didn't know who was asking the first question. 

This was bad, because part of him was telling him that this was very, very important. Panic bubbled up inside him, and he was conscious of quelling it. He didn't know why he was doing so- but his pride did so automatically. He didn't even know where that pride was coming from- but it was there, shoring up his faltering mind, and he clung to it like he was drowning. He may have had no idea what was going on, but that didn't mean he had to bawl about it.

He pushed the coverlet that had been laid over him down to his feet, noting absently that it was a rich, beautiful thing. For some reason the thought paths of appreciating beauty seemed-foreign. Like he'd never seen anything beautiful before. Then he blinked. That seemed odd, too.

"Hello?" he croaked, listening to his own voice as it filled the waiting silence. Nothing answered him. He scanned the rest of his room, seeing a wash area, a steaming platter of food, and clothes. Again, he noted for all his lack of subjective memory, he seemed to have knowledge there to access, the kinds of information a person takes for granted in their everyday lives. But he had no idea where that knowledge came from. He felt like something was rattling around in the empty space.

Sighing, he went over to the wash area, and started running the water in the tub instinctively, wishing something would make sense.

Looking up into the mirror, the face he was foreign as well. Like it was being covered with something. He reached out to touch it, and came across something like armor. He frowned, feeling around the edges. It covered his forehead and ears, making him look like some kind of giant insect. Not that he remembered learning what an insect was, but he could see it clearly in his mind.

Carefully he pulled the heavy headdress free, and looked at the thick, short black hair that was plastered to his head with sweat. It itched.

For that matter, so did the rest of him.

He noticed that he was completely covered in that armor, and that an unsavory smell was coming from it, and him. Frowning, he removed it, and looked down at himself.

His skin was milky pale, with two purple streaks over his eyes. The irises themselves were amethyst, one minute seeming purple, the next blue, then pink. His naked body was muscular, and pale as his face, and he blushed, looking down further. He was male, part of him clinically noted, like he'd never seen that before. 

Grimacing at the grime he found, he looked at the various cloths and brushes, choosing one of the former, and some pleasant scented soap. His mind identified the smell…sandalwood. 

Other soaps of various types were there, and he sniffed them, finding what else was there. Lavender, rose, mint, oatmeal, musk, pine- all arrayed in front of him. Feeling that if he was going to face his doom, whatever that was, he'd do so better washed, he lathered some of the sandalwood soap on a cloth and sat on a small stool next to the tub, inside the smooth marble wash area, which sloped gently to a drain. There he scrubbed away the dirt and sweat, soaping his short mop of hair, and then dumped cold, bracing water over himself, shivering hard.

Hopping up, he slid into the steaming water of the deep tub, hissing at little at the heat, which turned his muscles to jelly, and he closed his eyes in bliss, soaking in the glorious warmth.

Blinking lazily, now that he felt decent, he noticed the food yet again, and that it was comfortably close to the tub. Now, who was he to argue with convenience?

Reaching over, he looked at the tray- it was loaded with food: tempura of all kinds, soup, rice, sushi, pickled ginger, noodles, horseradish… his mind boggled at it all. It smelled wonderful. There were two pitchers next to it, and taking a tumbler, he sampled them- one containing fruit juice, the other milk. 

He popped a piece of the sushi in his mouth, and chewed thoughtful, savoring the delicate flavor of the dish… 

His mind wandered, still trying to come to some kind of conclusion about who he was and what had happened to him. One, he was not in any kind of pain. This didn't really have any bearing on weather or not he was a prisoner- some were treated quite well. Although, with the food, the bath and the clothes, at least he knew he was not going to be killed any time soon. That wouldn't make sense.

He also guessed he was not going to be interrogated. He had no information to give; and it was only logical to assume that the people here may have had something to do with his loosing his memory in the first place. Of course, that was certain…

He shrugged. He knew he wasn't in pain; that he couldn't remember anything about himself, and that he had yet to see whom his captors were… and that at least one of them was a damn fine cook.

Blinking, he noticed that there was nothing left on his tray but some greasy tempura crumbs, and that the pitchers were dry. Sighing, and noticing that the water was also cooling, he got out and dried himself, trying to decide what to do about clothing. Oddly, something inside him screamed that his armor was the only thing he should wear, but it stank like a dead dog. Wrinkling his nose, he looked over at the loose robes and breeches of handsome blue. Pulling them on, he glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked nothing like he had when he'd woken up. He'd started combing out his short thick hair when the door to his chamber opened silently.

He'd never have noticed his visitor if he hadn't been looking in the mirror at the time. He snapped his head around, and he dropped into a defensive stance, holding back the shock that he knew anything about that.

The person staring back at him was green, wearing dark blue under a majestic white cloak and turban. His face was twisted with distaste, looking at him like he was some kind of wart.

"Well, you're awake," the person said, crossing his arms.

"I suppose you don't remember who I am- my name is Piccolo. That bastard judge of the dead Enma has decided that, or reasons only he could conceive of, that I am to be your guide back in this life."

Seeing the shocked expression on Cell's face, Piccolo smirked. "Yes, you died. Your name is Cell, by the way. If you don't like that, tough. It's what I am going to call you, and what everyone else will call you as well. From what I've been told, you didn't get a chance to choose between good and evil. So, you were sent back. It's been a while since you died. You are on Kami's Lookout. It's Dende's, now. What will happen is that you are going to be given the chance to see the value of life, understand why it's supposed to be protected. At the end of a certain term, and they didn't tell me what it was, you are going to be given your memories back of your evil ways. From there, you will choose between the two. Don't get any ideas- you are still dead. This is the decision on weather you are going to heaven or hell, that's all. You will not get the chance to return to being mortal."

The man, now knowing that he was called Cell, worked is jaw soundlessly.

Piccolo turned around to leave.

"Are you coming or not?" he asked, not looking at the person behind him.

Shaking his head to clear it, Cell followed the green man out, wondering what the hell would happen to him now.

To be continued!


	2. Chapter Two

The Road Less Traveled II

  
  
  
  


Disclaimer: Dragon Ball Z does not belong to me, and I am making no money from this at all.

  
  


"My name is Cell," the man said, trying the sound out in the empty room. "I am dead."

His only answer was a vague echo.

The person named Piccolo had led him to this giant room, its walls lined with books, scrolls, maps, paper, ink... It could have been a library of some kind. However, like the rest of his knowledge, it wasn't his truly. The answer to his question had just popped up, quietly from his subconscious. 

Cell looked around, then stared at his pale fleshed hand. He was dead? How could he be dead? He didn't really have a good concept of death, because he couldn't remember anything of what happened... What was death? The dry answer was that he had stopped breathing, his heart had stopped pumping blood, and that he had ceased to live. He could feel his heart beating, though. He could feel the thin air rush in and out of his lungs. He'd been returned to life so that he could be judged later, or so the green person had said.

How was he supposed to deal with this?

Fear rattled like a cold wind through his soul. Fear of the unknown. Fear of dying again... and fear of living, too. 

The young man hadn't noticed that he was pacing around, disturbing dust and making stacked scrolls rustle with his movements. He nearly knocked over a pile of books. What was he going to do, what, what what?

He'd fought down panic in the bathroom, but that was before- now he couldn't stop the choking terror from closing his throat. 

~*~*~*~*~

  
  


"What do I do with him? I'm a fighter, not a philosopher," Piccolo said quietly, watching Cell from a scrying pool that Dende had. 

Dende shrugged. "He's a blank slate right now. He needs to learn to love living."

"Pretty pointless if you ask me," Piccolo snorted. "He's going back to Hell when this is over, right?"

Dende nodded. Frankly, this whole exercise seemed pointless to him too- Cell wasn't going to get to stay no matter what he did. The sin he'd had was erased. What was the point of it? No one had died, except for Goku, and it was his choice to remain dead. Cell could have gone to heaven. However, this didn't change what he had done, so he could just go to hell. 

"How can I change what someone is, or what they did?" Piccolo asked, still watching Cell. "What makes one good, or evil?"

Dende sighed. These were hard questions to answer. No one ever answered them fully.

"He needs to be able to make his OWN decisions. To be free of Dr. Gero's influence. Like you had to be freed from your father's."

Piccolo bared his teeth. That was not something he wanted to be reminded of. 

"Show him why he was wrong."

Piccolo frowned. How to do this? What made humanity worth sparing?

~*~*~*~*~

  
  


"Who am I? I am Cell- no, Cell was someone else. Someone who remembered. I am I. I am me. I am the person I am now. I am alive, but-" Cell shuddered. His pacing had increased until he felt like he was going to go nuts from the fidgets. 

There was a creak from the door, and Cell nearly jumped out of his robe. Turning he saw light flow throw the growing crack in the door. It was then blocked by a giant silhouette.

"Why is this happened?" Cell asked softly, his voice trembling. The green from paused.

"I know you have no reason to trust me, but... this is because of a lot of things. You were never given a chance to live and to make your own decisions. You wouldn't have listened had you retained your memories of yourself. You will get them back," he tried to reassure the shaking construct. It felt foreign to be doing this for Cell of all people. 

Cell shuddered. Reality... what was that?

"Come with me," Piccolo said softly, reaching a hand out to the shaken man. Cell stood there for a moment, thinking. Timidly he reached out to take Piccolo's hand, and held it loosely. Piccolo paused, surprised that the hand was warm. There was innocence in that gaze, along with the fear, that stirred a queer feeling in Piccolo's gut. He'd felt it for the child Gohan, he remembered. 

"We are going to sit outside, in the sunlight," Piccolo said slowly, calmly. "I am going to meditate, and you are going to read. Here," he picked up a book. It was a poetry collection. They walked over the bright Lookout, Cell squinting and nearly shouting when he saw the edge. Piccolo paused before it, standing in midair, and folded his legs in a lotus. Cell just gaped.

"What are you?"

Piccolo cracked a bleak smile. "You used to know. I am a Namek. I am also capable of using the energy of my fighting spirit to do things, like this. You might be able to do it eventually. For now, just read."

Cell felt his knees go weak and he slowly sank to the white tiles, shaking his head. Taking a deep breath, he opened the book to a random page.

"To see the world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wild flower. To hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour," the newborn innocent murmured, and blinked in thought. This bit of verse was not something he had known before. Nothing in his mind came forward to confirm, deny, or even comment. It was new, falling into his mind like stones thrown into a pond, and the ripples touched the farthest shores. He... learned.

Almost eagerly, he dived back in to the pages.

  
  


~*~*~*~*~

  
  


Piccolo watched his new pupil through almost closed eyes, feeling the surprise then pleasure that filled him at something new. Cell was treating the poetry book like a child with a new toy. Considering his deprived mind, Piccolo realized, he shouldn't be so shocked. Anything was better than not knowing who you were. 

How to make someone appreciate being good... That was hard. If Goku was still alive, he'd have asked him, because no one loved living and life more than he did. Piccolo though... he cared about the Earth, but it had been his slowly caring for Gohan that had made him good. 

Hell, did he even want to?

He hadn't noticed he was staring at Cell's face until he realized those odd shifting eyes were looking back at him, and Piccolo frowned hard. Cell swallowed.

"What did I do?"

Piccolo didn't answer. The Cell that Piccolo had known wouldn't have asked, but part of him felt he could see that calculating mind working. The former god knew that Cell couldn't remember...

"You tried to destroy this world. You nearly killed me. You did kill a good friend of mine. You did kill a lot of people, absorbed them."

Cell stared at him. How... how could he have done that? He didn't remember that at all. 

"Then why aren't I going to Hell? Why was I given the chance to change?"

Piccolo opened his mouth to answer about the sadistic bastard Judge of the Dead- but stopped.

"The Judge of the Dead needs more than what you had in your file to send you either to Heaven or Hell. You were, are, whatever, a construct. You were created by a scientist who wanted my friend dead. He died before you were finished. Apparently, two of his earlier creations were needed to be absorbed by you so that you could become 'perfect'. Perfect what, I don't know. They had been destroyed in that time line. So, you stole a time machine and came here, to this time and universe started randomly absorbing people. Then you found the Androids and absorbed them. My friends and I tried to stop you..."

Cell felt a morbid fascination with the story as it unfolded. He didn't remember it- but it felt familiar. As he'd read the poems he'd come to the conclusion he had to deal with the here and now- and he didn't have any power over this situation to change it. The story was bizarre- WHY had he done those things? Why did he want to become Perfect?

"How did I die?"

Piccolo grimaced. "Gohan, my pupil, killed you after my friend, his father, died trying to stop you." The tale of the tournament followed, and Cell felt sick. He didn't understand anything. Without his memory, he hated himself, he didn't understand- He just didn't understand. Plainly, Piccolo, the only person he had met, hated him. This left a painful gap in his mind. He needed something. He needed...

Kindness, affection. He needed affirmation. Self loathing filled him to the brim, and he wanted nothing more to do with the monster of which Piccolo spoke. He clumsily got to his feet, the beautiful poem book falling from his numb fingers. What was the damned point now? Did he deserve hell? Why then was he here? In the short period of time he could remember, he hadn't hurt anyone. He hadn't wanted to. He couldn't imagine why he ever would. Maybe... Maybe he could end this farce now.

The amnesiac stumbled to the edge of the Lookout, ignoring the questioning look from his guide. That was a lot of emptiness, part of him noted. Only the emptiness inside him was worse. 

"Fuck it," he commented without emotion, and jumped off. 

  
  


To be continued!


End file.
